


Unnamed, Untamed

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: The Stories We Tell [3]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle of Camlann, Post-Canon, Storytelling, taking shelter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: The Company takes shelter from a particularly violent storm. Fathers are discussed. Kai is terrible at both stealing bartering. Bedivere is reluctant to share in all capacities. Galahad is not. Mordred is overwhelmed.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian)
Series: The Stories We Tell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608088
Kudos: 13





	Unnamed, Untamed

**Author's Note:**

> I have no beta for this one, so not only are all mistakes my own, but the likelihood of there being mistakes is higher than for _Once More Unto the Breach_.

“Fuck,” Mordred swore as he tried to keep the fire going. The canvas tent they had set over the fire pit had long soaked through. It was a losing battle, but Mordred was stubborn.

“Mo!” Kai called from the other side of camp, “Pull up your tent!”

“We're leaving? In this storm?” Mordred could barely yell loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“Higher ground!” Kai kept his answers short, “Now!”

Mordred found himself rushing to comply despite not sharing Kai's fear of floods. They lead their horses on foot, fearful of the muddied ground taking the animals' footing.

Kai's horse did slip, but Kai calmed the beast before the loss of footing could turn into a panic.

“It's oddly tender,” Galahad said to Mordred, “how he handles his horse.”

Mordred did not respond, his own focus on keeping his feet where he wanted them as they climbed the pathless hill taking near all his attention.

Once they had climbed high enough for Kai to call for them to stop and attempt to build shelter enough to keep their spare clothes from getting soaked, Mordred tried to share his horse's warmth and failed. Even the animal was shivering.

“Autumn is kind until is isn't,” Kai said.

“We're going to need to find an inn!” Bedivere's voice was a roar, “At this rate even the horses are going to suffer for days!”

Kai's sigh could be felt by the rest of the company, but he gestured for Bedivere to take the lead.

–

The nearest inn was a tiny thing with only one open room. Gracious for their patronage, the innkeeper lead them to their tiny piece of refuge. The horses were taken to the nearest stables by an unfortunate stable boy, who also had instructions to hang their furs and bedrolls to dry over the stalls.

“Shit,” Kai hissed as soon as the door was closed, “I fear the attempted shelters did no good.”

“As long as there are blankets to wrap ourselves in and floor to spread our clothes, we will be alright,” Bedivere said as he emptied the contents of his pack.

“I have been naked in front of others more times since we started this journey than I have the rest of my life,” Mordred said as he wrung his hair out in the corner furthest away from the door.

“There is something very Old Gods about it,” Galahad joined Mordred in the wringing process.

“When the druids were the primary – if not the only – source of mysticism around, it was commonplace,” Bedivere was almost out of his clothes, “Modesty was something for unmarried women's safety and little else.”

“I did not come of age with much religion,” Kai added, “but my father was the only adult I had regular contact with, so most of what I learned of social graces came from rare encounters with neighbors.”

“For unmarried...that sounds barbaric,” Galahad blanched.

“There are monsters wearing the skin of men in every faith,” Bedivere looked directly at Galahad, “My village, at the very least, did not try to pretend otherwise.”

“What about the married ones?” Mordred asked.

“They were more likely to cut off an offender's dick,” Bedivere shrugged. Mordred winced in unwanted sympathy.

“You're Welsh, yeah, Kai?” Galahad asked.

“As is – as was – Arthur,” Kai confirmed.

“Arthur made his name more, uh, more mainstream British, didn't he?” Galahad asked as he removed his shirts. Kai nodded. “Why didn't you?”

“It was the name I was given,” Kai shook as much water out of his hair as he could, “and all I had left of my parents.”

“So, Kai ap Ector then, yeah?” Galahad asked. Kai nodded again. “What about you, Bedivere?”

“It's the British version,” Bedivere offered.

“Welsh or Cornish?” Mordred asked. When Bedivere didn't answer, Mordred tried again, “Why'd you change it?”

“My father changed it when he came under Uther's banner,” Bedivere's words were clipped, “Safer that way, he said. What about you, Galahad? I've seen you look ready to kill a man for shortening your name.”

“It's only ever been shortened with malicious intent,” Galahad bristled, “People who found me too slight, too effeminate, too weak-looking to be in the service of King Arthur attempting to discredit what little renown I'd carved for myself.”

“That's fucked up,” Mordred said plainly.

“It happened,” Galahad tried to dismiss the matter.

“Names have inherent power,” Bedivere wasn't as ready to drop it, “What power the name my mother gave me had when held against the power of the name my father gave me, though, I could not tell you.”

“I cannot say I am much attached to my name,” Mordred said as he resumed wringing his hair, “Mordred, Mo, Hey you bastard. I'll respond to all of them.”

“Who called you bastard?” Galahad asked.

“My father,” Mordred sighed, “Lot, not Arthur. I'm still untangling the two.”

“Sounds like a charming man,” Kai said dryly.

“I do not blame my mother for wanting to escape him,” Mordred stood up straight, “But she could have at least poisoned him first.”

“Agrivane would have been King for more than just a few minutes,” Kai argued, “Would that have been better, though?”

Mordred thought for a moment before he answered: “Mother would have been regent and could have pursued...oh, wait, no, yeah, I can see where that may have caused the same problems.”

“Besides a second marriage being seen as an attempt to overthrow the throne,” Kai pointed out, “That...yeah.”

“Everything surrounding my birth, my family, and the title of King of Orkney is fucked up,” Mordred ran his fingers through his hair as best he could, “I wonder if Orkney has fallen like Camelot.”

“The state Orkney is in would create a power vacuum,” Kai explained, “So even if there had been a King to return to his throne, he likely would have found it already occupied by a contender and not had enough men to reclaim it.”

“Why didn't that happen with Camelot, anyways?” Galahad asked, “Not complaining about getting to leave instead of having to flee, but why?”

“There are too many surrounding Kingdoms and estates that have known peace for too long to launch an attack without it being viewed as attacking their own,” Bedivere grabbed the lone blanket and wrapped it around himself, “It will take at least a little time before those who would rent the fabric Camelot wove make their move.”

Kai glared at Bedivere and tried to take the blanket from him. “No, no, I grabbed it, you're on your own,” Bedivere side-stepped Kai with ease.

“Do we stop them orrrr,” Mordred asked Galahad quietly.

“I think we wait until they're distracted and take the blanket,” Galahad suggested. Mordred shrugged, a gesture close enough to agreement for Galahad's satisfaction.

“No,” Bedivere clutched the blanket to him with his only hand, “No, this is mine, go ask for more.”

“You go ask for more!” Kai made another grab for the blanket, “You're the one who's covered!”

“They probably don't have any more ready,” Mordred's observation went unheard by the older knights.

“They fight like children,” Galahad marveled.

“Probably how they deal with everything that's happened,” Galahad guessed, “ For all we know they're like this every time they've been off the road for more than a piss break. We haven't actually shared an inn room with them yet.”

“Hasn't escaped my notice,” Mordred wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend himself.

“What name do you prefer?” Galahad changed the subject.

“Either my given name or Mo, if it has to be shortened,” Mordred answered, “I haven't given much thought to it but I do like a name more than _bastard_.”

“Hmm,” Galahad found himself at a loss for words, “Do you know what your name means?”

“No,” Mordred shook his head, “and even if I did, I would have spent my younger years trying to rail against it out of anger.” Galahad made a surprised sound before Mordred could continue, “My brothers were all so much older than me that I never knew them well, never got close to them. Lot had a temper and mother was most frequently on the receiving end of it. To say I grew up angry and violent in attempts to save myself her fate would be putting it mildly.”

“Patrilineal rule makes no sense,” Galahad shook his head, “There at least needs to be some sort of temperament test.”

“Like hunting dogs?” Mordred asked for clarity.

“More rigorous,” Galahad shrugged, “But if it's commonplace to put a young dog down for biting the hand that feeds it, why do we let kings who beat their wives make decisions that effect an entire nation?”

“When you say it like that it makes sense,” Mordred conceded, “even if it is more violent than I was expecting. That said, when stories of Lot are told I will not mind if his violence-first approach to problem solving gets remembered most.”

“Were there redeeming qualities?” Galahad realized he knew nothing about the King whose people were willing to tear Camelot apart in his honor.

“He managed to raise five sons who became Knights for the most well-respected King in the lands,” Mordred shrugged, “Fat lot of good that did in the end.”

“Perhaps the stories we tell will discredit him,” Galahad tried to offer comfort.

“I hope so,” Mordred realized he was still watching the older Knights fight over the blanket.

“I wonder,” Galahad said louder than he needed to, “what power the truth has over the stories we tell.”

“I have a feeling we will never be able to answer that,” Mordred shook his head.

“I will still try,” Galahad's regret for questioning their mission had turned into a more well-tempered resolve.

“Your father, Lancelot,” Mordred asked suddenly, “What are your first memories of him?”

–

I was perhaps four or five when two strangers arrived at my house and took me away. I did not understand what was happening and do not remember more than a few details. Men shouting. A woman's screams lamenting love lost, even if I did not understand the meaning to the words until I was much older. Fresh fruit, the sweetest thing I had ever eaten, being given to me in small chunks as I rode in front of the biggest man I had ever met.

Camelot herself felt like a dream. And the stonework! I remember running my hands over the walls for hours in the beginning.

I was raised by the Knights as a communal thing, really. Lancelot, Arthur, and Guinevere took a special liking to me, but for the longest time I thought it was because I was the only child at court. It was the summer after I turned nine that I first saw my own reflection. I thought at first how pale my face was compared to the rest of the round table, and second thought it was almost as pale as Lancelot's.

I started paying more attention, then, to how different everyone looked from each other. Even King Arthur and Sir Kai, sometimes referred to as brothers and sometimes referred to as foster brothers, looked so different from each other. Still, I thought maybe I had seen myself wrong, or there was a trick of the fair folk at play.

When I finally asked him the truth, he admitted that, yes, he was my father. He told me he had not known about me until shortly before I came to court, and I believed him.

–

“How do you feel, knowing the truth?” Mordred interrupted.

Kai had told both young men the truth about their siring and how much the King and his closest members of his court had known about them.

“I still wonder how long he had known about me,” Galahad let his shoulders drop as if relieved of a weight, “but I do not blame him.”

“Your soul is kinder than mine,” Mordred nearly spat.

“We were both sired through force and violence,” Galahad's eyes were unfixed.

–

After you came to court I began to suspect my father was not the only member of Arthur's royal family who carried such a secret. You looked so different from your brothers and held so much anger in your eyes.

Lancelot must have recognized the anger because he almost immediately took to counseling me in how to judge people's character by their actions and inactions alike. I found it strange at first, but his words often rang hallow. They felt more like he was trying to turn me onto a path he wished he had taken as a younger man.

After Kai disappeared and Arthur, well, you remember the beginning of those years. My father as regent began well before Guinevere died, if we are to be honest.

My father would have made a good King had he stayed home, but the legends of Arthur and his accomplishments called him to Camelot. And so, it was to Camelot I was born.

–

“He was a **King**?” Mordred interrupted again.

“Well, yes, but I couldn't get much more than that out of him,” Galahad pulled a face.

“So you could be King,” Mordred connected the dots.

“Of a land I have never seen, never felt?” Galahad was appalled, “I would not want to rule a land I had no connection with.”

“Is that a fair folk thing?” Mordred wasn't sure why he asked such a question.

“I do not know,” Galahad shook his head.

–

Lancelot told me little of the fair folk, or of how they raised him and how he came to be their ward. There was a disconnect, I think, between how he thought of the family he was born into and the man he became under the fair folk's tutelage.

He was furious when I came back after the worst quest of my life. I had never seen him lose his temper before that.

He berated me for being so foolish, for opening myself up to such a risk. The fair folk have no cares regarding to what a man and a mind can survive, he kept saying.

I, in turn, lost my temper at him, told him I saw what it did to Bors and to Percival, demanded to know why had he not told me these things before that moment?

He wanted to protect me from the world of men and fair folk alike, he claimed. Camelot was my home – why had her teachings not been enough? I just wanted to know more, I argued, and since when had knowing been a thing so forbidden?

Days later, he broke and told me he feared losing me as he had Guinevere. Different endings, he said, but a loss he could not endure. I had never seen him so vulnerable before, and I think it unsettled something inside me that had been anchoring all of my decisions to my confidence.

–

“Is that why you kept asking if this was the right thing to do?” Mordred asked. Galahad nodded. “Also, you knew about his relationship with Guinevere?”

“Not in the same way Kai knew,” Galahad corrected, “But I had my suspicions.”

“I have learned more about Arthur – about my father – after his death than I could have hoped to learn while he lived,” Mordred deflated, “He was so distant and reserved.”

“He had to be,” Galahad went on the defensive, “Not just to you, but to everyone who was not Kai, Guinevere, or my father.”

“Do you think our fathers had the same relationship with each other as they had with the Queen?” Mordred's question was a blunt, unwieldy thing.

“I would be surprised if they did not,” Galahad said effortlessly.

“Huh,” was all Mordred managed to say.

“Do you think they have that sort of relationship?” Galahad pointed to Kai and Bedivere with his nose.

“Are you going to ask?” Mordred raised his eyebrows.

“Nope,” Galahad was quick to say.

“Are you against it?” Mordred's question had an edge to it.

“Not at all,” Galahad either did not notice the edge or ignored it, “I simply feel that if the question was asked and the answer was no it would make whichever one we asked withdraw from the other.”

“You are perceptive,” Mordred offered as close to praise as he could manage.

“I hope my father is remembered as loyal,” Galahad said so suddenly and so loudly that even Kai and Bedivere stopped their struggle, “and that the worst he is remembered as is misguided.”

Galahad looked between his three companions before he decided to continue: “I hope the violence of my conception is forgotten and the attempts he made at being a parent are remembered.”

“Lancelot always did his best,” Kai let go of the corner of the blanket he had managed to grab hold of, “Even when his mind and body had given all they had, he still rallied when his King called.”

“Lancelot loved Arthur as a man and as a King,” Bedivere added, “It is rare to be able to love both the crown and the person behind it.”

“All Kings should be so fortunate,” Kai managed a reluctant smile.

“I fear the new faith coming from the south may force their people to forget their love,” Galahad frowned.

“How so?” Mordred asked.

“Fidelity seems to be a sticking point for them,” Galahad said with a sigh, “Fidelity, to them, is between two people, no more and no less. What would a King whose body was shared between his wife and his Champion be recalled as, to them?”

“How would you have their love remembered, if not as the truth?” Bedivere prompted.

“Loyalty,” Galahad was quick to answer, “So, so loyal to both man and crown that the truth can be sketched when not stated.”

“There,” Mordred said, “That is the kind of power stories have when truth loses its power to popular narrative.”

“We missed something,” Bedivere said in a loud whisper.

“Obviously,” Kai rolled his eyes.

Galahad crossed his arms over his chest, not quite defensive but not a self-comforting gesture, either.

“If the truth of some of the individuals must be changed in light of the shifting political and religions landscape rather than to give them happier endings,” Mordred took a deep breath, “then telling their stories in ways that allows the truth to linger between words is important.”

Kai dropped his shoulders to a more relaxed position, looking at Mordred as if just seeing him for the first time.

“Truth and history are rarely aligned,” Bedivere bristled, “We're here to guide history, not preserve the truth.”

Kai put a hand on Bedivere's shoulder, meant to be a calming thin. Bedivere jumped and leaned away. He dropped the blanket, leaving it open for claiming.

“They deserve as much of both as we can manage,” Galahad said so quietly that the older Knights almost missed it.

“They deserve better than they got,” Kai dropped his hand back to his side, “if nothing else.”

Mordred crossed the room and claimed the blanket from the damp floor.

“The blanket's nearly as useless as the clothes we wore here,” Mordred held the blanket between his hands and an arm's length away from himself to examine the thing, “and I cannot tell if that's from your two or the floor.”

“It's damp, not soaked,” Galahad snatched it from Mordred and wrapped it around himself, “As long as the bed's dry, it won't be horrible, really.”

“It's cold enough without adding a damp blanket to the mix,” Mordred complained.

“It's still a long way to nightfall,” Bedivere sounded unworried, “and we paid enough for the room that if we do not show for supper, someone will bring us our meals and we can ask for more blankets then.”

“You think they will have some?” Galahad looked hopeful.

“If they do not we will make do,” Kai shrugged.

“For two people who were just tumbling over the blanket, you don't seem all that invested in actually keeping it for yourselves,” Mordred frowned. Bedivere cast his eyes to the floor and Kai failed to hide his flinch.

“It's the principle of the thing,” Kai managed, “If we aren't willing to try to get what we want from a friend, what are we really going to be able to stand on against a foe?”

“Did you train Arthur with words like that when you were children?” Galahad asked, finding himself genuinely curious.

“More than with words,” Kai said with a dry laugh.

–

I never knew my mother beyond her name and that she was a kind woman who could find to ill words for anyone. Ector, father, was nearly as kind but had an edge about him that never let anyone forget that he earned his place so close to Uther by merit rather than favoritism.

Arthur, as I've found most younger siblings are prone to do, followed me around from the moment he could crawl. At first I was annoyed – it was like having a mostly sentient shadow that screamed – but after being reminded enough times that I was to teach him more than scold him, enough of the lesson sank in that I was able to turn the scolding into fighting.

It drove father mad, our ability to fight over anything and everything. The more words I learned, the more Arthur learned in turn, and the longer and more involved our squabbles became. They were never over things that would have made a difference, in retrospect, but children lack both hindsight and foresight almost entirely.

As he grew strong enough to get into physical altercations, the fights took on a new edge. It was when Ector returned home one evening to find Arthur and I fighting with non-bladed kitchen tools that he decided it was time to get us practice swords and some basic discipline training.

–

“Non-bladed kitchen tools?” Mordred interrupted.

“I think one was a rolling pin and the other was a wooden spoon,” Kai shrugged, “We knew we weren't allowed the knives but there were no rules on things without blades.”

–

Training went well enough for children of four and nine. We became more cooperative in our fighting, sometimes stopping squabbles to correct each other's techniques before resuming things. It was not until I was perhaps ten or eleven summers old that I grew bored of fighting with someone who was perpetually less than half my size and instead turned to more competitive things – races, setting traps, those sorts of things.

He learned very early on that those were things he could not win, but that never stopped him from trying.

–

“So it's your fault he was so tenacious,” Bedivere said with a laugh.

“I fear that was inborn,” Kai's tone was flat but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “but I won't say I didn't help hone it.”

“He sounds so different,” Mordred's voice was hollow, “as a child, I mean.”

“All people are different when they're children,” Kai shrugged, “Except perhaps Galahad here.”

“Hey!” Galahad cried.

“You've gotten louder, I will give you that,” Kai was teasing.

“I refuse to believe he was always so fast on his feet,” Mordred began unpacking his bag and spreading out as much as he could to dry.

“It scaled with age,” Bedivere offered.

“I was raised at the round table instead of tutored like the other children in the castle,” Galahad realized that spreading out his pack would be an excellent idea, “Even if I was not allowed to hold a practice sword until I was about eight, I knew the techniques and politics behind each one well before then.”

“So, that's why you've always been smarter than you had any right to be and wise beyond your years,” Mordred rolled his eyes.

“Eh,” Galahad declined further comment.

“There's an assumption there that the round table was always wise,” Bedivere dumped the contents of his bags without ceremony. Galahad laughed, an unguarded thing.

“I certainly wouldn't call myself or the round table's company either of those things,” Galahad reeled in his laughter, “At least, not without recognizing that there were some, ah, moments of...”

“...the exact opposite?” Bedivere tried to help.

“Complete jackassery,” Kai supplied, less helpful but more honestly, “I do not know how close you were to the table, Mordred, but there were plenty of meetings that, well, left us with more questions than answers, a hangover to curse the gods themselves with, and stories that haven't been told.”

“Apparently not close at all,” Mordred's eyes went wide.

“It changed, after you disappeared,” Galahad told Kai as the energy in the room shifted into something tense, something wounded, “Arthur, he doubled down on all the good ideas the table had ever conceived, but also doubled down on the weight of those duties we were all expected to shoulder.”

Kai's expression faltered before turning into something akin to shock. “I...”

“It wasn't your fault,” Bedivere was quick to add, “and it wasn't entirely a bad thing, the doubling down. It was just...different.”

“I think that was what started the fracturing of Camelot, though,” Galahad missed Bedivere's attempt to soften the blow, “Arthur, my father, the Queen – they all three began to act less like a part of the court and more as if they were at the head of it.”

“They were,” Bedivere pointed out.

“The equity among us was gone,” Galahad argued, “Camelot, the round table, hell, even Arthur – they were a sign of change.”

“Arthur _was_ change,” there was a snap to Bedivere's voice, “no matter the shape of the table, there was more equity and equality alike under Arthur's rule than Camelot had ever seen.”

“What do you mean?” Galahad took half a step back.

“The key part of the word kingdom is king,” Bedivere huffed, “Everyone who has ever sat on Camelot's throne has been a King, and if anyone ever sits on her throne again, they, too, will be king. And should a day come where there are no more kings it will be because the titles have changed, not the dynamics.”

–

Uther, true to his name, was a terrible man but an excellent king. He demanded no less than perfection from his Knights and accepted no less than unwavering loyalty. To serve at Uther's side was to be the perfect pawn, ready and willing to lay down your life for a king who would never ride to the battle's front lines.

If the harvests struggled, he would never know it except in numbers. No famine would ever reach his banquet table.

Arthur's mother, Igraine, was not his wife at the time Arthur was born. She was hidden away during her pregnancy to protect Uther from criticism, not allowed to leave the rooms he gave her and only a select few staff members and the midwife allowed to see her. After Arthur was born, he was rushed away, his royal cloths covered with those of a beggar to hide his identity. Igraine never even got to see her son, nonetheless hold him, before Merlin departed with the bundle.

Igraine married Uther less than a week later. She was never a happy queen, though the whispers of her misery blessedly never reached Uther's ears. He would have rather cut out a tongue than ask why it spoke such words.

The revolt, the one that killed Uther and Igraine and hundreds of others, was not so much to put Camelot down as it was to remove Uther. Since his knights were loyal to him more than they were the land, they rushed to protect him.

–

“You were one of Uther's knights,” Galahad pointed out.

“I was one of Camelot's knights,” Bedivere shook his head, “Ask Kai about the difference.”

Galahad and Mordred looked at Kai expectantly.

“I was one of Arthur's Knights long before I even began training,” Kai sighed, “and I was not trained with you, or whoever would have been my age to train with. I am afraid I do not know the differences you speak of.”

Bedivere frowned before he continued.

–

My father was brought to Camelot for a trial. The war camp I was raised in for the first part of my life – it was more a small city than a war camp – was finally raided and my father was one of the few soldiers taken captive and marched back to Camelot. Those who were spared were allowed to take their families, but my mother refused to go. I was not given the choice.

My father, when given the choice between death and serving Uther, looked at me for so long I thought he was going to be killed in front of me before he gave an answer. He chose to serve.

Only when he was sure we were alone he would tell me stories of the first Pendragons – Kings whose lineage went back so far that even the druids spoke of them as if they had walked among the first gods to settle on this land. Kings who tamed dragons and could call lightning down with a whispered word. Those Pendragons, he would tell me, would come again, and if we were to live under the Pendragons of now, we would wield our swords as it if were for those first Pendragons, not for Uther.

I had suspected the people I came from were trying to do what the very people I lost my hand to succeed in doing. It felt strange, fighting against people who, for all I knew, hailed from the lands my blood called for yet I had never gotten to see.

Still, I trusted my father's tales, and when I took up arms, I took them up for Camelot over who wore the crown.

–

Bedivere's shoulders tensed, back muscles twitching as if under a great weight. Kai's expression had hardened to unreadable. Mordred's mouth hung open.

“The Fair Folk still live among dragons,” was all Galahad said.

“Not between worlds,” Kai rushed to fill the silence, “Still, I have no doubts that Arthur's forebears were something of fair folk stock.”

“Fair folk stock?” Bedivere asked at the same time Mordred said, “Why?”

“If not fair folk stock, to what would you prescribe the ability to call lightning?”

“You believe it, then?” Bedivere finally looked directly at Kai.

“Without hesitation,” Kai didn't hesitate to reply.

Mordred looked between his traveling companions to try to gauge how serious they were about dragons of all things.

“Your father died in the same coup attempt that killed Uther, didn't he, Kai?” Mordred asked, desperate to speak of things more tangible.

“Aye,” Kai's affirmation was a cold thing, “Never got told how or where he went down, but the rider was instructed to come rouse us with the news first. I suspect he knew one of us was a key to securing Camelot but wasn't sure which.”

“And Arthur, how did he take the news?” Galahad found himself curious.

“I do not know,” Kai shook his head, “Merlin whisked him away before I could even try to join them.”

“That's...” Galahad searched for a word.

“Incredibly fucked up,” Mordred finished, “Dragons, adultery, and wizards with no sense of propriety. Camelot's story sounds...almost unbelievable.”

“It sounds like the stories of the fair folk's world you might hear in taverns,” Galahad supplied, “Which brings us back to the truth slipping through the words of stories. Anyways, did you want me to go have supper sent up?”

“It's barely past lunch,” Kai looked out the window, trying to judge the time of day, “but sure, if you are so inclined to do so right now.”

Galahad shrugged and left the room, blanket clutched around him.

“I will forfeit my next three suppers worth of bread if you follow him and tell me how the innkeeper reacts to him,” Bedivere offered Kai more than Mordred.

“What?” Mordred blanched.

“Make it five,” Kai countered.

“Four,” Bedivere narrowed his eyes.

“Five,” Kai held fast.

“Oh my God,” Mordred shook his head. Like children rang through his head. Like this is how they cope echoed back.

“Four and no more,” Bedivere crossed his arms, defiant.

Mordred resigned himself to watching the standoff. Their clothes would, by his estimate, be dry by the time they came to an agreement anyways.

–

Night had fallen and their dinners were mostly gone, no bread redistributed.

“The truth,” Mordred said around a mouthful of stew, “against a better ending than what happened. Does the better ending stand a chance, or do you think the truth will always find a way?”

“Yes,” Kai's food was mostly untouched, “Not in a way that will make itself known to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for, mind you.”

“Only the intelligent?” Mordred tried to clarify.

“Only the observant,” Kai corrected, “They are not one and the same.”

Mordred pursed his lips, trying to figure how to respond.

“Everything about this is about defying the truth,” Galahad tried to decide whether he should ask Kai if he was going to finish or just take the bowl and see what happened.

“Not all of it,” Bedivere interjected, “The end bits, sure, but maybe we won't even need to change the ending if we focus on all the bits before it.”

“No matter if the truth survives,” Kai sighed, a heavy thing, “Getting to give him the story – the epic – he deserved will be worth the effort.”

“What do we call this quest, anyway?” Galahad decided against trying to take the bowl.

“We let it name itself,” Bedivere said with a stretch, “Just as it does not matter if you believe the first of the Pendragons tamed dragons and called down lightning, I do not believe it matters what the name this quest, only the power behind it.”

“Can you elaborate just a tad?” Mordred asked.

“Whether or not the Pendragon line was birthed from otherworldly magic is ultimately inconsequential,” Bedivere's words had slight paused between them as he weighed his options, “The power behind those stories kept people loyal to Camelot and hopeful for her return even as her darkest days fell over her Kings.”

“Camelot held off against the Roman invasion, yeah?” Galahad tried to remember his history.

“As did most of the surrounding land,” Kai nodded, “A people, though divided, will rally for a greater cause.”

“As they did for Camelot,” Mordred set his bowl down, not quite finished, “Agrivane was so sure he was leading us to victory, that there would not be time for Arthur to...”

Mordred could not bring himself to finish his sentence.

“A greater cause,” Galahad echoed, “So what you're saying, Bedivere, is that the focus is on the cause and the rallying point, not the truth?”

“Truth does not need faith to exist,” Bedivere's words were coming closer together, “and in the end, people will tell themselves what they want to believe. If we are to give them a better end for both Arthur and Camelot, we, in turn, give them a future to believe in.”

Bedivere looked between his traveling companions, waiting for one of them to speak.

“I could have prevented this,” Mordred wrung his hands, “It's my fault.”

“Camelot would have fallen eventually,” Bedivere was unphased by Mordred's crisis of conscious, “All Kingdoms, all empires, are brought to their knees eventually.”

Kai finally picked up his bowl and began eating in earnest. “It's still fresh,” he said with a heavy sigh, “and none of us are going to be able to think about the more far-reaching consequences of distorting the truth in favor of honor for a long time.”

“It spooks me,” Galahad admitted, “how much already is striking me in ways more painful than my battle wounds.”

“It's been a month,” Bedivere said, “The worst of the battle wounds have not healed and are prone to being torn open by memory.” He rubbed mindlessly at the end of his partial arm. Kai's fingers twitched, eager, too, to rub his twice-wounded thigh.

“Together,” Kai was mostly talking to keep himself distracted, “together we set a precedent for the bards and druids of the future.”

“Together,” Bedivere nodded, also trying to distract himself from the sudden flood of uncertainty the day had brought to their quest.

“Together,” Mordred and Galahad assumed it was a rallying call of Kai's own devising.

And together they sat and waited out the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I subsist on a diet of feedback and coffee.


End file.
